Okay, my furless friend. We’ve been summoned for breakfast. Oldy-baldy George came in and dinged a little bell and now we’re all shuffling off to the Food Room. I’m not going to lie… I’ve never felt so jittery. Never in my whole life have I been nervous about being fed.
I can’t believe Ruff would do this to me. It’s one thing for him to send me—ME, his best, BEST, BESTEST pal in the whole world—to a dog retreat while he goes off to Hollywood, but how could he send me to a place that feeds salad to dogs?
Don’t get me wrong… I know there are plenty of humans who love to gorge on greens, and that’s fine. But to a dog, THIS IS TORTURE!
I can’t cope, my person-pal. My paws are trembling… my belly is gurgling… my nose is dry! If the staff here at Barking Meadows bring out bowls of carrots and lettuce for breakfast, I’m not going to make it. I can feel my life slipping away. Twenty-four hours without the meaty loveliness of dog treats has done strange things to me. Even now I swear I’m seeing things…